


Memories Topped with Dust and Wine

by kibasniper



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Banter, Gen, Higurashi no Naku Koro ni | Higurashi When They Cry Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Canon, Presents, Reminiscing, Rivalry, Tea Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26832613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibasniper/pseuds/kibasniper
Summary: Invited to a tea party by the Apprentice Witch of Origins, Bernkastel faces stale cookies and a haunting question.
Relationships: Beatrice the Golden Witch & Bernkastel, Beatrice the Golden Witch & Ushiromiya Maria, Bernkastel & Ushiromiya Maria
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Memories Topped with Dust and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> happy umineko day 2020!!

As soon as she arrives in the Golden Land, Bernkastel’s nose wrinkles at the odor of the rose garden. It’s too pungent, emblematic of the kind of purity that makes her stomach churn. Each petal wafts with an overwhelmingly sweet scent, and if she could summon an oversized pair of hedge clippers, she’d do it in a heartbeat to kill every last offending flower.

But this domain is not hers. She would not be so uncouth to defame or tarnish the Territory Lord’s palace without victory in her grasp. And she had already lost the battle to him and his wife eons ago, her piece’s assault on the Golden Land ending in failure while she suffered her first dismal, humiliating loss in centuries at their hands.

A raindrop lands squarely on her skull. She glances at the cumulus clouds high above the mansion. As anticipated, they are filled to the brim with rain, their edges rounded and soft, like the experimental cotton candy Lambdadelta would dip in her morning hot cocoa. The typhoon is upon her, and as her hair whips in the wind, she makes no attempt to flee the incoming storm, preferring the rumbling thunder commandeering the sky.

Bernkastel floats over the seemingly endless array of roses. They stretch on for as far as she can see, her lip beginning to curl at the aroma tickling her nostrils. A hint of lightning catches her eye, its color the same hue as the roses, and she pauses to observe how it zigzags across the wine red clouds, gashing through it like an open wound.

She expects another to follow. It should cross through the sky at any moment. Yet, the same bolt strikes again, it's width and pattern the same as before. It happens in quick succession, as if urging her to hurry.

“You can use the lightning to lead me instead of sending out one of your worthless pieces of furniture?” she scoffs, brow wrinkling at the implication. “Beato, you sloth.”

Still, she follows. She supposes that is one of her feline traits surging forth as she obeys the lightning spearing through the impending storm. Curiosity had always guided her, and she is not one to shy away from any temptations offered to her on a silver platter.

Landing on one of many intertwining cobblestone paths, she faces an arbor in the center of an intersection. Its sleek, silver design is decorated in vines and daisies. White petals flutter but never fly free. She throws caution to the wind and approaches, her heels clicking quietly, her eyes narrowing on the witch sitting on her laurels.

Maria’s smile could dispel the hurricane. She leaps up in her seat, the oak backing quivering when she slams her shoulders into it. She shakes her fists to her chin, her excitement causing her small frame to quake.

“Lady Bernkastel, uu! I’m glad you ca-!” Maria claps her hands over her mouth, cheeks blushing bright red. She quickly clears her throat and jumps to her feet. Gripping the edges of her dress, she curtseys, bowing low before the superior witch. “I, Lady Maria, the Apprentice Witch of Origins, am humbled to welcome Lady Bernkastel, the Witch of Miracles and a member of the esteemed Senate, to the Golden Land.”

Formal jargon from Maria, with her squeaky voice, makes a laugh tickle the inside of Bernkastel’s throat, but she hides it behind pursed lips. Still, the corners of her mouth twitch. She nods when Maria raises her head, offering a quiet greeting in return. She lets Maria straighten and sits across from her in the other oak chair provided in a flash of golden butterflies. 

Surveying the tray of delicacies, Bernkastel scrutinizes the lack of cupcakes, breads, and jams. There are only shortbread cookies in the shapes of rabbits, goats, and elephants nestled next to three piping hot cups of tea. Based on the violet hue in the cup on her porcelain coaster, she can already taste the plums on her tongue, which she deems acceptable.

“Mama and I made them,” Maria explains when Bernkastel looks at her.

“Your mother? Then, they must be poisoned,” she quips, Maria gasping as she takes a generous sip of tea.

“No, no! Mama knows how powerful you are.” She giggles. “If Mama wanted to really fight, then she’d plow through an army of goats to face you! Uu!”

The innocence behind her words implies that she does not know or does not care that with a snap of her fingers, Bernkastel can erase them from existence. Two red truths impaling through their chests would kill them, blood gushing out of their hearts and spraying from their mouths.

But she merely chuckles. Even if she says her truth, the current Beatrice will simply acknowledge them again. It would be tiresome engaging in a fight with her, and she did not want to face the additional wrath of the Golden Witch, who protected her charge with a fervor Bernkastel had only when she was a human.

“Is that so? Regardless.” Bernkastel lets her comment go as Maria plucks a few cookies with a folded napkin. She sets them on a plate, decorating it while she hums. Two goats make up the eyes, one elephant is the nose, and the rabbits are the wide smile at the end of the plate. She wordlessly takes the juvenile plate, her eyebrows slightly arched, and she allows Maria to fill her plate with a handful, while each cookie on the platter is replaced with another appearing in a flutter of golden dust.

She is reminded of Erika, who would have pounced on the situation. Erika would have dragged Maria down to hell by claiming that the cookies were not reappearing with magic but are actually extra treats stored elsewhere. The thought interrupts her appetite, giving the first cookie a faintly sour taste when she bites into it.

“Uu, do you like them?” Maria chirps, and she pops a cookie into her mouth.

“They are good. No, decent. They could use more sugar, but I’ll give them a passing grade,” Bernkastel replies. As Maria cheers, she slips her index finger around the handle of her teacup. She gazes at her reflection in the shimmering liquid, her visage maintaining the same neutrality as always. “The real question is why have you asked for my presence,” she adds, taking a sip, savoring the fruity taste.

Maria bobs her head up and down. She snatches her grimoire from the seat next to her and flips open to what Bernkastel believes is a random page. But when Maria turns it around, her heart drops into her stomach.

In crayon, there is a drawing of a young woman on the center of the page. A few purple lines are her long hair. Red scribbles make up the lower half of her miko outfit and her eyes. The horns protruding from her temples are a blended mesh of black and blue, dipping low to her shoulders and crowning her face.

“Do you know Oyashiro-sama?” Maria asks, her voice louder than the thunder.

A knife plunges into Bernkastel’s belly and shreds through pale, naked flesh. The monster holding the knife laughs and gouges deeper, slicing through entrails. Pulsing, slimy guts spread across her chest and hips. Bile and blood fill Bernkastel’s mouth, but she swallows it back with another gulp of tea, twin rivulets of purple liquid dribbling down her chin.

Maria suddenly coos, her eyes wide, and she shrinks into her seat. She jerks her head from side to side, uncertainty forcing her to remain silent. She raises her grimoire like a shield, cowering behind it when Bernkastel slams her hand on the table, her pupils constricting at her prey.

“And what makes you think I’ll impart an ancient history lesson to you? Is your brain the size of a grain of rice?” she hisses, fangs bared over her lower lip.

Maria audibly swallows. Her fear compliments the tea on Bernkastel’s tongue. She runs her fingers down the grimoire’s worn spine, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “Bu-but, uu, uu, Luh-Lambdadelta, she told me-she told me that you knew her.”

“Lambda,” Bernkastel snarls, recoiling and digging her nails through the tablecloth. It tears like paper through a shredder under her touch. “I give that girl an inch, and she takes a mile.”

Maria leans forward, asking, “So, then, you do know her?” she asks, hope infused in each syllable.

Bernkastel grips her brow. A sigh heaves past her sharp teeth. She knows Maria is merely a child, but even an apprentice witch should have the common courtesy to not inquire about a Senate witch’s past. Any fool who dared had their physical form reduced to mincemeat and their soul trapped in the most reprehensible fragment imaginable. As long as the witch deemed the punishment appropriate for such insolence, their chances of escape remained at zero.

But before she could contemplate which fragment would suit Maria, a golden butterfly flutters near her. Its appendages nip her earlobe. More pop out of thin air. Bernkastel sighs and sits as they come together, Maria gasping in such disgusting reverence that Bernkastel almost succumbs to crude, childish gestures like shoving her finger down her throat.

It’s like an explosion of glitter when Beatrice comes into existence. The sparkles fizzle around her and mix with the smoke from her pipe. She puffs out a cloud unlike the ones above their heads. She offers her right arm, and Maria shouts her name, thrusting out of her chair to her side. Beatrice smooths down her curls, smiling like a mother as Maria buries her face into the warm, heavy fabric of her dress.

“Beato, it’s about time,” Bernkastel dryly remarks.

“Lady Bernkastel, welcome, welcome,“ Beatrice jeers, her voice laced with honey, milk, and venom. ”You weren’t about to harm my protege, right? You wouldn’t want to be eviscerated from head to chops, riiiight?”

“With your pitched voice, I wouldn’t recommend an opera career,” she deadpans, Beatrice cackling in return.

“Well, as your guardian knows, attempting to assault Maria is like an attack on me.” Beatrice waves her pipe at the rose garden. “You wouldn’t want to be skewered by the Seven Stakes or blown to pieces by the Chiesters, but oh! You love that kind of roughness with Lambdadelta, don’t you? It would be like foreplay, and I wouldn’t want to entice you when I’m a happily married woman.”

Bernkastel closes her eyes and finishes her tea. She will allow the fitting bout of laughter Beatrice expels from deep in her belly at her expense. Awarding one point to Beatrice, she resigns from their game of wits.

She would be certain that the Witch of Certainty paid costly for revealing her secrets.

“Tell your ward that she is asking questions unbefitting of her status as a fledgeling,” Bernkastel counters, her cup refilling itself from the leftover droplet spreading until it reaches the tip.

Beatrice smooths down her dress as she makes her comfortable in her chair next to her apprentice. “Hoh? What did you ask, Maria?”

Maria pouts and twists the fabric on her sleeves. ‘Uu, I just wanted to know about Oyashiro-sama,” she mumbles, her voice bordering on weeping.

For an apprentice witch, she is still too childish. The way she implores reminds Bernkastel of a newborn chick, someone so inexperienced that anyone could guide them to their ruin. She raises her gaze to Beatrice from over the rim of her teacup, her demand written clearly in the creases of her brow.

Beatrice clicks her tongue and tilts her head. She scratches the underside of her chin, a loud, droning hum pressing against closed lips. Squaring her shoulders, she snaps her fingers and claps her hand on Maria’s head, announcing, “Oooh, I remember nooow! Maria, that demon is nowhere near the Golden Land. In fact, I believe she might still be serving her world, so it’ll be difficult to meet her.”

Maria puffs out her cheeks and smacks her fists onto her thighs. “But Beato, you brought other witches over to play like the Witch of Suspicion and the Witch of Subversion and the Witch of-!”

“The difference is between the very essence of a witch and a demon,” Beatrice interjects, lightly tapping Maria’s nose with her pipe, making her go cross-eyed. “While a witch is free to explore, such as our high and mighty guest-” She gestures at Bernkastel, who decides the cookies are now too flaky when they make eye contact. “-a demon such as Oyashiro is usually tethered to a realm until her duties are finally finished.”

“Which will never be,” Bernkastel says, her teacup clinking on the coaster when she sets it down, “since she has endless humans in that village to purify.”

Maria swaps her attention from her master to Bernkastel. A question lights up in her eyes, one Bernkastel can sense before she can ask. But to her relief, Beatrice rests her hand on Maria’s shoulder and whispers something only they can hear. Maria pulls back with a smile, her dimples deeper than Bernkastel remembered, and she jumps out of her chair, offering a quick curtsey to them before vanishing in a fit of golden butterflies.

Beatrice yawns and foregoes formalities. She pops two cookies in her mouth, noisily chewing and swallowing, resting her legs on Maria’s abandoned chair. Sneering at Bernkastel, she says, “It seems Lambda has been getting cozy with Maria.”

Bernkastel closes her eyes and shrugs. “I’ll deal with her tomorrow. I’ll grind her bones to be the cinnamon in my oatmeal.”

Beatrice howls, laughing so hard Bernkastel thinks she will unhinge her jaw. She slaps her knee, jeering, “Ah, that’s delicious! I never tire of hearing your bedroom talk. Perhaps I should take a page out of your playbook and use some of your techniques on my husband.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Any ideas?”

“Men are not my preference. Not that I would help you in the first place,” Bernkastel replies, pressing her palm to her cheek. “What I want to know is who really made this batch of cookies? They’re terrible.”

Beatrice sticks her pipe behind the rose in her hair, the smoke wafting around her head like a halo. “Well, it can’t be helped. Maria really did make them specifically for you.”

“She should’ve tried harder.” She puffs out a chuckle. “What, does her magic not extend to using the right amount of sugar?”

“Her mastery is over origins, not cooking.” Beatrice laces her fingers together and rests her elbows on the table, back slightly hunched as she leers down at her. “Not that you should call the kettle black. Maria and I have been taking lessons from Ronove over the past hundred years on how to make delicious, mouth-watering pastries while you…” She trails off and whistles. “...well, I’m sure you have important work to do at the Senate such as sitting on your ass all day.”

They evenly met each other’s gaze. Beatrice drags her sharp fingernail across her ruby red lower lip, tempting Bernkastel for a response. Bernkastel drums her fingers on her coaster, the clinking filling the silence. The wind howls, and the thunder answers its call.

Bernkastel sighs. “As usual, I stand no chance against you.”

Beatrice laughs, all traces of ill will vanishing in a heartbeat. She reaches over and claps Bernkastel’s shoulder, welcoming her as a friend. “Oh, it’s always a pleasure having you over! I wish you’d come around more like Lambda. We even had Dlanor and company here just two weeks ago when the little inquisitor found some time off.”

“I’d rather engage with you on my own terms,” she scoffs and runs her fingers through her hair, “but I couldn’t leave such a formal request for a tea party from the Apprentice Witch of Origins unanswered.”

Bernkastel raises her hand, waves it around, and uncurls her fingers. In the space between her index and middle fingers is a pressed envelope. She removes the rose sticker keeping it together, allowing the flap to open, and she removes a slightly wrinkled sheet of notebook paper.

“I see! She had written you a personal request from her grimoire,” Beatrice notes, hands under her chin.

“If I had known she was going to ask about that trash demon, then I would’ve thrown her and her mother in an incinerator, one that would burn for all eternity, like Eva-Beatrice had done in the third game.” Bernkastel smells burnt flesh and smirks, their screams music to her ears as their bodies roast in an endless inferno.

She knows the threat is pedantic, but she says it anyway. Beatrice would never allow anyone to touch a single hair on Maria’s head. For her, it simply brings momentary pleasure.

“Speaking of Maria, I apologize on my apprentice’s behalf. Had she known better, then I’m sure she would have consulted me before issuing a summons,” Beatrice says, her tone softening. She slips a stray curl of golden hair behind her ear. “I’m sure the subject is taboo-”

“Then don’t breach it.”

“But although I lack your feline characteristics, I’m very much like a cat, too,” Beatrice counters, raising a finger, one side of her mouth tugging higher into her cheek.

“And your curiosity is boundless, except for when it comes others who want to sink their teeth into the truth of your story,” Bernkastel sneers, the opening too good to pass up.

In the briefest of milliseconds, panic flashes on Beatrice’s face. It’s a twitch that makes her confidence quake and cures Bernkastel’s boredom for a decade. But as quickly as it comes, she is back to her prestigious status as the Golden Witch, haughty and cruel, her sneer as twisted as always.

“Right you are! But we are both witches, are we not? Isn’t that what it means to be a monster and an auteur?” she exclaims, throwing her arms out, the bones in her hands pressing against her skin. “Controlling the narrative, writing what we wish to show, and in the end, only the ones who can see past the blood and gore can understand the heart of the story! It’s why I am who I am!”

Bernkastel rolls her eyes as Beatrice laughs at the top of her lungs. Beatrice prattling about the heart and love make the cookies and tea sitting in her stomach violently stir. She groans and swigs down the rest of her drink, hoping it would calm the storm brewing in her belly, but she anticipates that she would violently heave it up later on some inappropriate fragment filled with nothing and nobodies.

Beatrice calms down, ending her fit with a quiet sigh. She peers at the rose garden, her expression unreadable. She loops her finger around the handle of her teacup, raises it, but she sets it back down, locking eyes with Bernkastel.

“From what Lamdadelta has told me, Oyashiro is similar to Maria,” she comments, her smile soft.

Bernkastel remains motionless. Voices of old friends fill her head. A young girl’s hand threads through her own, her laugh sincere for her, mendacious for foolish boys who kept tripping her traps.

Beatrice counts on her fingers. “Precocious, delicate, whimsical-”

“- and unable to hold her liquor and spice,” Bernkastel finishes, her smirk matching Beatrice’s.

“A demon who can’t drink? I didn’t know they existed!”

“You’d be surprised. If you ever left the Golden Land to travel, then you’d be more cultured.”

She gasps and grips her chest, false offense taken. “Ohh, I walked into that,” she whines, her fingernails tearing through her hair.

The sight amuses her, which she takes as her cue to leave. One victory is better than nothing. She stands and pushes in her chair, the scrapping attracting Beatrice’s attention. She brushes crumbs off her hands, telling Beatrice to thank Maria for the tea party.

“Hold on,” Beatrice quickly says. “It’d be rude to leave without waiting for Maria’s gift.”

Her refutation should be clear. Maria had never implied that she procured a present. While it is customary for younger witches to appease their seniors with lavish parties filled with strawberries and scandal, Maria is unlike any regular simpleminded ward. Although she lacks a witch’s decorum, she thinks only of purity. Maria’s head is in the clouds, and she views them as marshmallows, a thought Bernkastel once had as an innocent human living in that devoted, deceptive village.

Footsteps cut off her inquiries. Bernkastel faces the noise with a simple turn of her head. Maria races towards her with a bottle tightly clutched to her chest, her mouth open in a wide smile. Her dress flutters in the wind, her hair secured in place with her headband. She skids to a stop but trips over an uprooted cobblestone, yelping and sending the bottle spiraling at Bernkastel.

Beatrice snaps her fingers, and a fluffy, thick comforter breaks Maria’s fall. She is swaddled among pink linen and wool, blinking rapidly in disbelief that she had not collided with the ground. She immediately thanks Beatrice when she realizes she is safe, stars in her eyes, admiration in her tone, but she quickly jerks her attention to Bernkastel, her heartbeat thundering in her chest.

Bernkastel senses all of Maria’s feelings. She is an open book. All of her emotions are on her face, in her eyes, entrenched in her tone. One glance affirms that Maria’s heartbeat is returning to normal, the flush in her cheeks vanishing by the second.

But her main concern is the bottle she caught. It’s wine, which sloshes with each rotation of her wrist. The glass is green and translucent like sea glass. Inside, the liquid is dark, but she can make out a deep red hue, and she wets her lips, muscle memory betraying her neutrality.

“A Bernkasteler from 1969,” she muses, and for a moment, she is sitting on the windowsill gazing out at a night sky without stars while Oyashiro sits on her knees, chastising her for hoping.

Beatrice unravels Maria with another snap of her fingers once she places her by the table. As the blanket disappears, she says, “I knew you’d like it. You did name yourself after that brand.”

“Uu, uu! I hope you like it,” Maria says, wringing her hands by her waist, “and forgive me.”

“Oyashiro frequently said that,” Bernkastel sharply remarks, the words slipping out. She tightens her jaw, and she clears her throat, pressing her knuckles to her mouth as if she could physically prevent herself from speaking.

Maria cocks her head, a sheen of worry in her eyes, but Beatrice beckons her closer. She smooths down Maria’s curly hair and wraps her arm around her shoulder, soothing her anxieties. Bernkastel observes such saccharine comfort through the lens of another her in another time, when she was another girl who would cry into her pillow while Oyashiro patted her head and sang.

Her heart pulses, aching, when she feels that small hand run through her hair and hears that gentle voice murmuring her old name.

“If you ever meet her, call her Hanyuu,” Bernkastel swiftly says to Maria, and without another word, she vanishes, wrapped in a cloak of black magic.

Maria stares at the empty space. The rose garden captivates her, and she reaches back for Beatrice, who holds her hand. Feeling Beatrice squeeze her thumb into her palm, she turns around and smiles.

(Alone in the Sea of Fragments, Bernkastel clutches the bottle to her chest and vomits.)


End file.
